Asymptote
by MonochromePrism
Summary: Asymptote ˈasɪm(p)təʊt noun 1.a straight line that continually approaches a given curve but does not meet it at any finite distance. Fruk. Multichapter. Bittersweet.
1. Lines

_Asymptote_

* * *

_"Remember tonight... for it is the beginning of always"  
― Dante Alighieri_

* * *

Lines.

Lines were absolutely gorgeous to Francis. The showed such elegance in just one stroke. Such beauty — they were simply ethereal. Cross-hatching and the Golden Ratio and everything in between stained the sketchbook in front of him. Pencil scratching away on the sheet, he started on another line. Arthur dragged himself in and plopped himself into the couch, laying down. His chest heaved as he rolled his eyes over to Francis."Still drawing those stupid lines?" Francis nodded and Arthur sniggered something about how he should just go and marry a line.

"One day you'll realize just how magnificent lines are, Arthur." Francis walked across the room and slipped his sketchbook into a bag. "Tea?"

Arthur nodded in reply and sat upright, finally realising he'd been laying on his haversack this whole time. He unzipped it and pulled out a stack of paper. He set it down on the coffee table in front of the couch. Cheek in one hand, pen balanced in the other, he stared at the various lines and equations absentmindedly. Francis set the cup next to him, pushing the hot surface against his cheek to snap him out of a daze. Arthur scowled, but not a word was muttered.

Francis took to leaning forward and staring at Arthur's assignment. "Math?" He studied the curves and lines on the page. Arthur nodded, looking up at Francis from behind his teacup. His eyebrows were furrowed in such a way that said 'I swear if you dare go off about lines again I will kill you'. Francis backed off and giggled, spitting out a generic insult directed at his eyebrows before sitting down next to him on the couch. He turned on the television and the sound of the cliché drama flickered on.

Arthur looked at Francis briefly. He set his teacup down and went back to his papers. The Brit clicked his pen rhythmically and between the pen clicks and dramatic script, between them, there is nothing but space. _Just_ space.


	2. Aware

_Asymptote_

* * *

_"Of all the words of mice and men, the saddest are 'it might have been'"_

_ - Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., Cat's Cradle_

* * *

In the early morning, quick showers were a routine and a towel was shared on account of the other being left in the laundry. Quick exchanges of _Did you finish your assignments?_ and_ The professor is going to kill me!_ were common. Sometimes a perverse glance was thrown, twenty six shades of red coating the room, but it was mostly just for about fifteen minutes, both were out the door and well on their way.

Francis wakes before Arthur, shaking himself awake before glancing at Arthur. He is aware of how Arthur's hair frames his face like woven gold, how Arthur's breath ghosts over his face, how Arthur's lips are just slightly parted. What he isn't aware of, that's another tale. He isn't aware of how in that moment his ears were red, he isn't aware of the smile on his face, he isn't aware of how easy it'd be to steal a kiss.

Arthur isn't any better. He dries himself off after a bath absentmindedly. He is aware of how the towel feels damp, he is aware of how the towel feels softer today, he is aware of the faint scent of Francis lingering on the towel. It's a pity what he isn't aware of. He isn't aware of his heart rate increasing, he isn't aware of how he closed his eyes, he isn't aware of how much it hurt to let go of that towel.

They are aware of going forward, headfirst. They aren't aware of what's beside them.


	3. Jealous

_Asymptote _

* * *

_"And I can't find my breath, can we just say the rest with no sound?" _

_- Marianas Trench, Good To You_

* * *

Francis loves being around Gilbert and Antonio. They drink and laugh and stumble back to their dorms clutching one another's shoulders. Then they repeat it all the next night.

Tonight, again, he meets them in a bar. He chats with them about all the trivial things and maybe gives out some life advice, they nod and take it in. Then Gilbert asks about Arthur, and Francis will not stop. He blabbers on about Arthur, Arthur, Arthur and he's out-of-breath by the end of it. Antonio laughs.

"You always have so much to say about Arthur." Antonio stated with a foolish grin.

"Yea, we rivals, we talk about each other a lot." is what Francis said. _He's always on my mind_ is what Francis didn't say.

Gilbert took a swing of his glass, "So where's your dear Arthur?" He nodded towards Francis. Francis replies that he's probably at home. So he finds a girl on the dance floor. They ravage each other through the course of a few songs and he brings her home.

With heated, wet kisses and smooth hands, he makes love to her. Red lipstick smudges everywhere, hands rough and nimble. They collapse in a sweaty pile and kiss lustfully before quickly falling asleep. Arthur excuses himself when he sees them lying in the bed. Through low mutters of _Damn frog_ and _Stupid French buffoon_ a fire rampages in his eyes.

His jewel-like eyes, Francis once called him Little Jewel because of them, were ablaze and he didn't even feel it. He says it's anger, pure anger. But he should've known better. He should've known how at that moment ― Jealousy was what he felt.


	4. Apologise

_Asymptote_

* * *

_" If you close your eyes, does it almost feel like nothing changed at all?" _

_~ Bastille, Pompeii_

* * *

Apologising was a foreign concept to both men. They were far, far too proud and far, far too stubborn. Neither would want to ever make the first move, they were such blockheads that way. And for that reason, neither knew how to react the next day.

"Don't bring girls home, it's distracting" Arthur gritted his teeth and furrowed his eyebrows. He was unhappy, to say the least.

"For a week?"

"No. Forever." Francis bringing girls home all the time ― it just bothered him a lot. He couldn't figure out why, but it just did. Francis went off with his buts and whys but he refused to hear it.

The last time this happened, a year ago, he went a week only because Arthur threatened to withhold his promise to keep out of the kitchen. It kept Arthur satisfied, but now he's blown his top and will not rest 'till Francis complies. "Then, Francis, apologise." He cocked his head. If Francis was to apologise it would satisfy him more than anything in the world. Anything. But Francis is stubborn and will not bend.

He stands his ground. "No way." Francis retorts. He casts his glance to the coat rack, treading off shortly after dressed in a crisp grey trench coat. Now, the blonde would retort in an amused manner usually, but Arthur was serious this time. Arthur had cinders burning in his balled up fists and Francis could see so. He does not know what got Arthur so riled up, but toxic gasses and burning ashes filled the house, so he left.

So he left, and so he left Arthur behind.


	5. Rain

_Asymptote_

* * *

_"Do I love you because you're beautiful, or are you beautiful because I love you?"_

_~ Cinderella, Do I love you because you're beautiful?_

* * *

Everyone knows what happened in Pompeii. Three breaths of burning gas and they were all dead, ash settled and rain came and brought with it a way to freeze time for them. Cast in stone, they hold hands and tangle legs. It is beautiful, a parallel to what happens next.

Arthur breathes in the gasses but he stands strong and his lungs play host to butterflies instead. He takes a minute to regain control over his body. He sits on the couch and ash may coat him but down his head falls. He lies there.

Then comes the rain from emerald clouds, hardening himself and freezing the moment when he felt lonely and empty and just so confused. He is cast in stone, but his chest moves.

Enter Francis, throwing off his trench coat and scooting over next to Arthur. Arthur cannot move, he will not will himself to. So Francis leans back on the couch and gently rests a hand on Arthur's head.

Ash settles on Francis as well, and rain is brought forth from the sparkling sky. He, himself, lets the rain fall until he is still. Francis mutters something to Arthur.

Arthur does not hear Francis, for Arthur is still, his form highlighted in so many imperfect lines, but he is oh so beautiful to Francis.

Does he appear beautiful, so Francis apologises? Or is he beautiful because Francis can apologise?


	6. Near

_Asymptote_

* * *

_"Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone - we find it with another." _  
_― Thomas Merton, Love and Living_

* * *

Everyone and anyone who knew Arthur knew he was a word-orientated type. He was full of ideas, lyrical and poetical concoctions swirled around in his mind. He is a dreamer.

A quill suited him rather than a stylus. A writing club was what he had joined, every friday at 4:30. A prompt had been given this time, write a ballad, it said. _What a challenge_, he thought.

Arthur sat down with a pen and slouched, his 'writing' posture. It signalled to Francis to make a cup of tea for him, he'll be up late.

"What's it this time?" Francis sets the cup down and crumples into the couch.

"Ballad. Love song." Arthur furrowed his eyebrows. "I don't know how to write this."

Arthur cannot express his emotions. Yes, a weird trait for a soon-to-be poet, but he truly cannot put those pesky little feelings on paper. Francis, however, was quite skilled at it. Though he isn't exactly an expert in the vocabulary section, he could conjure up descriptions that manipulated your facial muscles till they broke.

Francis knew just how to help Arthur, "What do you like in a girl?" He twisted a lock of hair around his finger.

"If you make a perfect girl in your mind, writing a ballad for her will be easy."

Arthur thought. What kind of girl? He made a list. He liked a girl who could cook, who was sensitive to emotions, who wasn't too submissive, who was strong, who was supportive. With that he set to work on his ballad, writing a love song he would never sing.

But he should.


End file.
